


Sober

by crazy_lion



Category: Demi Lovato - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Alcoholism, Crying, Demi feels sad and empty inside, Drugs, Ecstasy - Freeform, Heartbreak, Pain, desire to get back on track, hopelessness, in the end Demi has a little hope in her heart, messed up life, scenes of alcohol drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 15:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15844527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazy_lion/pseuds/crazy_lion
Summary: From the text:Alas, that's the truth. Many couldn't believe it, they thought "Sober" was just a song, that it didn't really talk about me, but that's it: I'm not sober anymore. The pain I feel is just too intense, and I didn't make it. I crumbled under it. And I feel such great shame about it that I cradle my face in my hands as if I had to hide from someone and not be seen. Maybe I wouldn't want to look at myself either, not inside nor out, to not see the person I'g going back to being, the one from years ago. Am I really the same I was before? I thought I had changed, thought I had become stronger than before ever since I recovered. And yet, now I feel bad again and I'm not sure about anything anymore.Disclaimer: through this piece of writing, published without any lucrative aim, I have no intention to give a thruthful representation of this person's nature, nor offend her in any way.





	Sober

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This story was originally written in Italian by me. You can find it on the website www.efpfanfic.net. My nickname there is crazy lion. I asked a friend if she wanted to translate this FanFiction in English and she said yes. We decided I could post it here so I did.  
> 2\. Sober is such a beautiful song I decided to write a FanFiction about it, imagining some of the reasons why Demi fell back into alcoholism. At first I didn't even think she had really started drinking again, but after listening to that song at her concert in Bologna, I did. There's too much pain in those words to think they're not true. I may be exaggerated or too sensitive, but I cried. I'm aware of the fact that something bad must've happened to push her into doing this, and that the motivations I talked about (of course, partially making them up) probably aren't the ones that pushed her so far; but I wanted to address such themes trying to figure out how she must have felt. I hope I did a good job. This is the first autobiographical story I've ever written in first person, and wow, it sure was weird to do so.

**Sober**

 

I'm on tour. After working for two years on the _Tell Me You Love Me_ album, I finally started my shows. Last night I was at the Unipol Arena in Bologna. God, it was awesome! All those people there, clapping and singing with me, showing me their love and support! Of course, that happens in all the States I go to, not just Italy. But wait, if I so excited, I smiled and I was so happy, why on Eearth do I find myself in my hotel room, on my bed, with a bottle of wine in my hands? Alas, that's the truth. Many couldn't believe it, they thought _Sober_ was just a song, that it didn't really talk about me, but that's it: I'm not sober anymore. The pain I feel is just too intense, and I didn't make it. I crumbled under it. And I feel such great shame about it that I cradle my face in my hands as if I had to hide from someone and not be seen. Maybe I wouldn't want to look at myself either, not inside nor out, to not see the person I'm going back to being, the one from years ago. Am I really the same I was before? I thought I had changed, thought I had become stronger than before ever since I recovered. And yet, now I feel bad again and I'm not sure about anything anymore. Anyway, the urge to observe my own image is too strong. I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. I still can't accept my body and I hate my legs, but I know I'm a pretty girl.

I go back to the room and sit on the bed again. The bottle fell on the mattress. I pick it up and cradle it like a baby. A baby ... A creature I could never have, not even adopting it, if I keep giving in to my mistakes. I open up the bottle and take a long sip without even thinking. The liquid runs down my throat and I immediately feel great warmth fill my body. I love this whole sensation. Yet, I should hate it, since alcohol is bad. I'm doing something wrong, I know. I'm violent to myself every time I drink. I won't have any shows for the next three weeks, so I can finally enjoy Italy. Or maybe I'll just stay in this room crying and depressing myself while staying in bed.

What else can I do? Tears start streaming down my face. I don't wipe them and let them soak my neck and shirt. I feel so sad and lonely!

Last year, Wilmer and I broke up, and hell, I miss him so much!

"We're too different" we both started saying.

He was older than me, and maybe even more mature. He wanted us to get married and have kids, when I still wasn't ready.

I wasn't exactly fine even though nobody knew about it, and one evening, while I was at his house, with nothing but the dim light of candlelights, he proposed to me.

"I'm sorry, I can't marry you" I told him.

I'll always remember the shape of pain on his face that day. _I_ made him suffer like that. Damn it, why do I always hurt people, drive them mad or make them run away? Maybe they're right to do so, if I'm such a horrible girl, if I have mood swings, if I keep drinking while I think. Anyway, I told Wilmer, crying and with a lump in my throat, that getting married wouldn't have erased our differences. It wouldn't have benefitted none of us. He just said that wasn't true, so we tried keeping our relationship going. But how could a marvelous man like Wilmer want to be near a person who was struggling so hard to be okay? I was self harming, anorexic, bulimic, drugged and alcoholic in the past. I wouldn't have wanted to be so in the future, and I kept saying I wanted to be out of that place forever. But once I gave up at a party and took a little ecstasy. That colorful tablet attracted me, they offered and I accepted. I don't know why. For days I had been thinking of all the shit I had done, so I took that drug just to feel something, an emotion that was different from the pain that burned my lungs and knocked the wind out of me. Wilmer tried to distract me and avoid making me think about it, but I wasn't strong enough to do it. And I'm not saying this out of victimism. I never wanted to play the victim, never! Wilmer and I were separated right then, he had gone to say hi to some of his friends. When I took ecstasy I was scared, I don't know of what, and feeling really bad. After a while, my heart started beating fast, and little by little I finally started feeling happy, euphoric, even. I hugged random people, some pushed me away, while others, probably as wasted as I was, reciprocated. The music suddenly seemed too loud, my head hurt and being there just killed me. When my boyfriend - or ex, I should say - saw me like that, he went mad.

"I can't keep this up if you're not with me, if you don't want to be alright!" he shouted while driving us both back home.

I just kept laughing and hugging him under the influence of that drug. I could hear him, but couldn't understand the words he said or the meaning they should have had to me. I was wasted.

"I love you, Wilmer" I told him.

"I'm being serious, Demi."

"I know."

"I really don't think so, otherwise you wouldn't be laughing like that."

"But I'm not laughing!" I retorted.

"Bullshit. Look at yourself: you don't even know what you're doing."

Then he slapped me on the cheek. He wouldn't have wanted to, I know, he was worried and suffered for me. That brought me, partially at least, back to reality and to our intricated situation.

"I am with you. I just gave up and I'm sorry. It won't happen again" I screamed in tears, unsure whether it wouldn't have happened again.

"Promise me!" he prayed, taking my hand and squeezing it tight.

I would have thrown myself to the flames rather than losing him, but I had to think about myself and my wee so I muttered:

"I ... I promise."

As a matter of fact I never took drugs again, but none of us felt like going on. And maybe it was for the best, for him at least. Not for me, though, absolutely; I lost a person who was a pillar, someone fundamental for my life. He _was_ my life. My psycologyst says I should be my own center and the others surround me to back me up. Now I know that's true. I understood that when we broke up. We've been together for years, and he stuck around through the toughest spots of my life, he even came to visit me when I was at Timberline Knolls. He cared about me and I cared about him, but maybe, it just wasn't meant to be. Even though we broke up on common grounds, it was really hard, and I felt and still feel pain in my chest when I think of it. There's this emptiness inside me, that for now, I don't think anything can fill. Ever since we ended things I also started having eating problems again, mostly bulimia. I feel empty inside, and I feel like food is the only way to feel better, when really it's just a way to run from my problems for a while and then dash to the bathroom to throw up. In the end I feel uglier, fatter and more stupid.

I start singing.

" _Insecure situations_

_Had me down, so degraded_

_Felt no pain_

_Didn't know what I wanted_

_Coulda had it and lost it all in one day_

_Gravity without center_

_Came and pulled me together_

_Just the same_

_Saw the gold in the embers_

_Way before I had ever called your name_

_I wasn't ready for ya, ready for ya_

_[…]_ "

It's the song I wrote for us and whenever I sing it I have nothing but mixed feelings: happiness, sadness and most of all, an incredible sense of nostalgia.

I didn't drink much, I'm not even drunk, but I start laughing like a fool. The bottle falls out of my hands, crashes on the floor and breaks. I look at the glass shards and I think it's as shattered as my life, the life of the moron I am. The rather annoying headache I had started feeling grows more painful and I groan, letting out a moan. I get back to the bathroom, lie on the toilet but don't throw up. I stay there for a while, feeling everything spin around me like an out of control top. I want everything to stop but it doesn't. I scream, punching the floor, in the hopes that nobody comes around to check on me or tell me off. I go back to bed. There's wine everywhere, and I soak my slippers and socks stepping in it. I change them straight away. I don't want to clean up the mess I made. I'll do it tomorrow morning, when I'll really be back to reality and I'll tell myself I was wrong, like always.

The break-up with Wilmer isn't the only reason why I feel like this, there's others, probably less important but equally painful to me. It's been years since my fight with Selena. She found out I cut myself and gave me a lecture I'll never forget. She told I had been an idiot. Before, when she got to her house's bathroom while we were having dinner together, she saw the blood and the razor, and I defended myself saying the dog had hurt me. To be honest, I didn't even have one back then.

What a load of crap! We hugged, but after a moment of quiet she asked for details. She wanted to know why I never asked for help and how long I had been doing that, so I told her everything: from the bullying to the fact I had been self harming since I was eleven ...

"I _didn't want to_ , get it? I was scared and paralyzed. Do you really think I'm an idiot?" I asked her.

"I'm sorry, Demi, but yes, I think so. You did something horrible, and you've been a fool" she whispered, in a menacing tone.

"If that's it, then you're not a true friend. You can't be, if you don't understand when I'm down" I replied, saddened but cold.

"You have to talk to your family, Demi. You ..."

"No, I wont. I can't" I said, cutting her short, as my cheeks wetted with tears.

"Then I'll do it."

" _Don't you dare_! You don't have to do anything! If I ever feel like it, I'll talk to them."

"When, Demetria? When you'll cut so deep you'll risk your life?" she then shouted, frustrated.

I partially understood where she was coming from, and she was right. Self harming was dangerous, and if I had a cut a major vein I could have risked dying or worse. And yet, it was stronger than me. Those voices in my head that told me to do it were so kind and reliable I couldn't resist.

That altercation full of cries and shouts went on for hours, and in the end, drained and torn apart, we almost didn't speak to each other. I left Selena's house without a word, and didn't see her for three months. Back then I cut myself every day, even four or five times, and at night I cried in my bed, almost drowning in my own tears, I shed so many.

Obviously, fans, the TV and the press were quick to pick up on our parting, and asked for details and explanations. Separately, the two of us told them what happened, of course omitting the real motivations. My self harming would only come out a short time later. Every time I talked about my friend I felt an excruciating pain eat away at my soul.

When we met, after some time, at a fancy dinner with other Disney stars, we did our best to avoid one another; and when we saw each other at some soirées, we didn't do anything but fight all over again.

I haven't heard from her in a long time, and even though I'm used to it, sometimes I really miss her. I would love to go over and try to make up, rebuild what we had, but I don't feel like it, and it seems like she doesn't either. If there's no will to do so, then so be it.

I open one of my drawers and take out the album. The cover shows me in a bit of a risqué pose. I hate it. I got angry at the people who made this because, hell, I'm not like that. Sure, sometimes I wear revealing outfits - a few times way too much, I'll admit that -, but I don't want to appear as someone I'm not. I forgave those people, but they chose to part ways from me.

"If you don't like it, then draw your own covers, next time" one of them told me.

Perfect! I don't even get a say in that?

I still feel like singing, so I start again.

" _I got no excuses for all of these goodbyes_

_Call me when it's over 'cause I'm dying inside_

_Wake me when the shakes are gone_

_And the cold sweats disappear_

_Call me when it's over and myself has reappeared_

_I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know why_

_I do it every, every, every time_

_It's only when I'm lonely_

_Sometimes I just wanna cave and I don't wanna fight_

_I try and I try and I try and I try and I try_

_Just hold me, I'm lonely_

_Momma, I'm so sorry, I'm not sober anymore_

_And daddy, please forgive me for the drinks spilled on the floor_

_[…]_ "

I'm really proud of this song. I like writing things I put my whole self into; and most of all, I love being sincere. When my parents found out I had started drinking again, a few months ago, it was a hard blow for them. We cried together, they asked me why, and my sister Madison ran to her room slamming the door after screaming:

"I can't bear to see you like this!"

"Why, honey? Why?" my mother kept asking. "Did I do something wrong? If that's it, why haven't you ever told me?"

She was so distraught she started pulling her own hair.

"No, mum, you're perfect! This is all my fault!" I was quick to reply, while this failed to console her.

After winding down a little, we decided it was time for me to get help again. It'll be hard, I know, but I don't want to give up. Maybe I should have told my fans I went back to drinking through something more than a song, but it felt like the right way to do it.

In the second strophe I told them I was sorry because it felt right. Without them, I wouldn't be where I am today, and I hope they'll keep supporting me even in the future despite all my struggles, because as the lyrics say I'm afraid I lost some of them, and there's no telling how dreadful I feel about it. I cry if I think about it. I know that someday I'll have to tell something else, and I hate to have fallen in alcoholism's trap again because other fans could leave or hate me. At concerts, though, all of them show the exact contrary. When I reach the verse:

“ _And I’m sorry for the fans I lost who watched me fall again_ ”

they all applaud, and I get emotional and cry because I'm so afraid to let them down, yet they're always there to show support, even on social media. I don't know if I deserve all of this. I don't think so. I feel like I'm to blame because even if I know setbacks while healing are normal, I hoped I didn't have to go through them, I hoped it didn't have to happen. And I’m going to do _everything_ I can to be fine again. But I'm not perfect, I'm only human. The ones who love me should hate me, the entire world should. _I_ hate _myself_. Yet, so many people love me, and I might never thank them enough. I hope to make it and get better, to pick up the pieces of a life that's risking to break all over again. It'll be hard and I burst into tears just thinking about it, but I want to try. With sadness in my heart and feeble hopes still burning like an ever present flame, I fall unconscious, sleeping through agitation and countless nightmares.

**Author's Note:**

> credits:  
> Demi Lovato, Ready For Ya
> 
>  
> 
> Demi Lovato, Sober
> 
>  
> 
> Note:  
> I did some research on the effects of ecstasy, and I hope I didn't make mistakes. In short, just like I wrote, it provokes fear at first, then, after thirty or sixty minutes, in come the other effects: euphoria, ability to better perceive music and rhythm, uncontrolled desire of physical contact. This kind of drug can also cause paranoid psycosis, cardiocirculatory failure and heart attacks.


End file.
